


One Snowy Thanksgiving

by ladyofreylo



Series: Flip Zimmerman [8]
Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cops, F/M, Happy Ending, Light Smut, Love Story, Police, Romance, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofreylo/pseuds/ladyofreylo
Summary: Reader X FlipOne snowy Thanksgiving in 1973, Colorado Springs is socked in completely.  Your guests can't make it to Thanksgiving dinner and your neighbor, one Detective Flip Zimmerman, is similarly stuck.  On a whim, you invite him to dinner, though he is nothing like you or your friends. They would consider him part of the Establishment.  You consider him a gun-toting macho man.  Thanksgiving is sometimes about meeting people you don't ordinarily associate with.
Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Reader, Flip Zimmerman/You
Series: Flip Zimmerman [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741786
Comments: 15
Kudos: 48





	One Snowy Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like this Thanksgiving pudding. It's unbeta'd, so all the mistakes and inconsistencies are all mine.

He’s a cop, you know. You’ve heard him come and go from the apartment building at all hours of the day and night. He lives right next door and so you got a glimpse of a holster under his jacket a couple of times. 

Thanksgiving is today.

An early snowstorm has effectively grounded all traffic and your guests can’t get to your place for the dinner you promised to cook.

Your neighbor walks down the hall just as you open the apartment door to let a little of the oven’s heat escape. He stops and literally sniffs the air.

You lock eyes. He nods, stamping the snow off his big boots and dusting his shoulders. His dark wavy hair sports ice crystals that shine in the hallway light.

“Hi,” you say.

“Evening,” he replies and fits the key into the door.

“Listen,” you say out of nowhere. “I was supposed to feed a couple of people dinner tonight. They can’t make it. Are you doing anything?”

He looks surprised. “Me?”

You give him a tentative smile. He’s not the type you normally associate with. Your friends are different--intellectuals, grad students, poets, and artistic types. This guy is so different. Law enforcement is usually standing on the other side of the protests you often find yourself in.

“Uh, sure,” he says. “I’m not doing anything. Give me a few minutes.”

“Absolutely,” you say.

Ten minutes later, he knocks on the door. You open it and allow this massive bear of a man into your little hippie sanctuary. You are suddenly aware of the women’s lib posters and peace signs, beads and tie-dyed fabric that litter your space. You can’t remember if you have any anti-cop materials around or not. You smooth down your embroidered peasant blouse, push your long hair back, and straighten your shoulders. This man, Flip Zimmerman by name, will have to deal with your hippie politics.

You offer him a glass of wine, though he looks like he could use a beer--or maybe a whiskey. But he is polite and takes it willingly. The glass is tiny in his hands.

Your kitchen is open to the dining room and Flip wanders in with his glass in hand. He asks if he can help and suddenly he’s washed his hands and rolled up his flannel shirt sleeves. His big hands and thick arms make you swallow. You’ve rarely, if ever, seen such a… 

A what? You find yourself feeling ridiculous. The other men in your life are perfectly fine. They tend to be thin and laconic, except when arguing about politics. Then they bring out venomous phrases and take each other down with clever ripostes.

This man, well, would he be clever and arrogant? Or could he best someone in a physical altercation? Perhaps both.

Why is that a turn-on?

Because that’s not who you are. You are searching for an artistic, sweet, sensitive guy who is a lover, not a fighter. And the idea of a man who hunts bad guys, forces them to the ground, handcuffs them, and shoves them around is distasteful, overly elemental. Really. As is a man who knows his way around a firearm.

And yet… those arms. In some primitive part of your brain, you feel it. He would protect, hunt, feed, and, yes, nurture a mate.

Mate? What the hell?

You take a fortifying drink of wine and start filling plates.

You and Flip sit down to eat together and speak lightly of Thanksgivings and friends, food and drink, and other social topics. He skirts around the edges of your lefty leanings and you don’t mention the gun he probably has in his apartment next door.

He compliments you on the turkey and trimmings.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he says quietly. “I was planning to go to a friend’s but the weather doesn’t wish to cooperate. I would have eaten sandwiches by myself, watching TV.” He smiles at you and you suck in a breath at his beauty.

He is not your type. And yet. He is here and he is big and handsome.

“Flip?” You are suddenly interested. “Why a cop?”

He raises his brows. “Why not?”

“It’s a thing I don’t understand. Why would you want to do it?”

“To protect people. I can protect you.”

“Who protects me from you?”

He presses his lips together. “A valid point. I don’t know. I just know that I’m not the only good one. We aren’t all bad people.”

“A valid point,” you agree.

He looks around your apartment. “Would a guy like me be welcomed as a friend of yours? If your friends knew what I do for a living?”

“I hope so,” you say. “I hope they would be accepting.” You don’t know if that would be true or not. “And yours?”

He shrugs. “I’m a workaholic. I don’t have friends other than the guys at the station. Maybe one in particular who keeps inviting me over for dinner with his girlfriend. He’s decided I’m lonely--or something. But yeah, he’d accept you for sure. So would the guys--or they’d have to deal with me.”

You look at him carefully while he takes a sip of wine. “Are you lonely?”

He shrugs again. “The job is my life and it takes up most of my time.” He pauses for a moment. “I don’t date much, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He looks up and meets your eyes. You stare at him. Would you consider it? A date with this guy?

His eyebrows go up briefly and he smiles a half-smile. “And you? Do you date much? I bet you do.”

He’s quite right, though you haven’t found a man who didn’t want you to type up flyers and mimeograph them for the cause. Most of the men you meet just want you to serve the coffee while they argue about big ideas and get stoned in someone’s living room. Not your notion of a fun date. Yeah, they’d want to fuck after the arguments got too intense and drifted into outright philosophical debate about the nature of God. Pull you into a bedroom and fondle you until they fall asleep.

Woman as accessory.

You doubt this big beast would be much different. You see him as a provider who expects food on the table and a warm body in bed. Same idea, different outfit.

No one seems interested in an equal partnership.

He notes your hesitation. You laugh. “I just went inside my head for a minute.”

“Turkey bone for your thoughts,” he says, holding up a drumstick that he demolished earlier.

“Just thinking about how I end up being an accessory…” you say.

“Not to murder, I hope.” Flip grins.

You laugh. He has a sense of humor. “No, to the people around me who would like to… hell, I couldn’t even call it a date. It’s more like a political meeting that women are supposed to host.”

“I see. Not dinner and a movie.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Too bourgeois for them, I’m sure. Unless it’s a political movie. Nothing against those kinds of films. And I’m all for sticking it to the Man.”

“Who the fuck is the Man, though? The government? The police? The Feds? The city counsel? Big business.”

You sigh. “So many men. So little time.”

Flip’s surprised look is worth a million bucks. He dissolves into laughter. “You are adorable, sweetheart, just fucking adorable. I’ve never talked to a little hippie before. I didn’t know what to expect.”

“I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover and all that, right?” You stand up to clear the plates.

Flip also stands and begins to help. “Right,” he echoes. “Don’t forget that.”

The cleaning done, you invite him to sit with you on your couch. He takes a look out the window at the snow blowing sideways.

“Sounds good, but I might take a whack at that sidewalk for Mr. Kindall. I doubt he can lift this stuff alone. I’ll get a head start before morning and work off the turkey.” He turns to look at you. “Want to help?” Then he stops. “No, of course not. That’s a…”

“Sure.” You pop up and walk to the closet. “I don’t mind shoveling. Sounds like fun. I might make a snowman too.”

Flip’s grin lights up. “Meet you out there.”

“Last one out there gets pushed in the snowbank,” you shout.

Flip runs for the door.

<>

And as the snow drifts down, as you shovel, as he shovels, as you lob snowballs at his back, as he dumps you in the snowbank, as you both make angels, and try to pack the snow into some kind of lopsided snow creature, you realize... He’s fun. He’s sexy. He’s straightforward. He’s nice. He’s genuine. He’s caring.

And he would kiss the snow from your lashes. Then from the tip of your nose. Then he finds your chilly lips with his and presses his frosty mustache on your face. Then slips his warm, sweet tongue inside your mouth.

And carries you back inside like a prized gift, a present to slowly open. You drip with melting snow and crystal icicles. You are warm inside your clothes and warm inside his big bed with his big hands on you.

You pull him closer and yank his hair as he teases you, showing what a true feminist man is willing to do for his woman. His lips sip you until you come hard under his tongue. And again because he isn’t convinced you are satisfied with one small orgasm. He thinks you need to be fulfilled and it’s his job to make that happen because he’s a man who thinks of others instead of just his own pleasure.

He rises above you, huge, muscular, glorious, masculine, and you realize that he simply is that way. He doesn’t have to be mean to prove it. He has nothing to prove to anyone, except for you, whom he wants to love fully with heart and soul, despite differences. Or maybe even because of them.

And you let him inside you until he bottoms out and breathes his amazement in your ear at how good you feel and how much he wants you.

You move together to find that moment when you are both whole.


End file.
